


let your love grow tall

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry wears his heart on his sleeve and nick knew that it would get broken one day.</p><p>he just didn’t realise that he would be the one to put the pieces back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let your love grow tall

**Author's Note:**

> hello i have no idea what this is either but i hope you enjoy it <3  
> title from the passion pit song of the same name.

it all begins with a drunk dial.

harry’s on tour in america, somewhere in dallas or detroit or wherever the fuck. the names all sound the same to nick, if he’s being honest.

that’s why the call wakes him up at five am, also known as way too fucking early. he doesn’t start the breakfast show until september, and really, this shit is most definitely not okay. he’s half a mind to press the “ignore” button, roll over and go back to sleep.

except the thing is, it’s harry calling. and he’s never been able to deny harry, not really.

so he picks up, mumbling into the phone, “its five fucking am, popstar. what do you want?”

“jesus, fuck, sorry grimmy, i just –“ harry slurs, and nick sighs, because of course he’s drunk. what other reason would there be for a call like this?

“what’s happened, love?” nick sits up in bed, his voice instantly becoming soothing.

there’s a long silence, but the sound of harry choking a sob comes loud and clear, and nick thinks _louis_ before harry says it.

“he’s fucking scared, he’s hiding with eleanor, hiding in the closet, and i fucking know he loves me, but he won’t – “ and harry cuts off again, breaking into a fresh wave of sobs, and jesus fucking christ, nick doesn’t know what to _do_. he can’t hold harry, can’t protect him the way he sometimes gets the urge to, all these kilometres away. all he’s got are words, and he’s always been shit with them. but he’ll try his best, because he has to. because it’s harry.

so he murmurs useless words and phrases into the phone, tired attempts at soothing harry, and when harry’s breathing calms, deepens, nick can let himself exhale as well.

that’s how it begins, but not how it ends.

+ 

fast-forward a week later and harry’s home, touched down on london soil again. he receives a text a short while after harry’s landed, asking _are you home?? .x_. nick rolls his eyes fondly at the almost trademark kiss tacked on the end, but replies instantly, _i am – are you going to grace me with your popstar presence?_

the reply doesn’t come through a buzzing of his phone. instead, it’s his doorbell that goes off, and honestly, he isn’t even surprised when he swings the door open to reveal harry styles and his suitcase.

harry’s eyes are downcast, curls encased by a beanie as he jams his hands firmly in his pockets and says, almost shyly, “hi, grimmy.”

and nick is just overcome with this wave of utter fondness for the person standing in front of him, acutely aware of his heart pounding in his chest as he replies, “come here, you,” and pulls harry into an embrace, feeling the heat of harry’s body as his torso presses against nick’s own, nick’s hands gripping firmly at harry’s back.

he doesn’t know how long they stay there for, nick’s arms encompassing harry’s slim body. and harry just feels so fucking _small_ in his embrace, something about him making nick just want to never let go of him, as if he can protect him from the world. because it’s all vicious, here. this industry and this life that harry’s been thrust into, not exactly _chosen_ but still wished for. harry’s vulnerable, and he wears his heart so goddamn proudly on his sleeve, even though he knows the consequences, knows he’ll only get hurt for it.

this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, harry showing up at his door and just saying “louis is with her” or “i hate lying” or something along those lines, if nick’s being honest, and every time it does, he’s reminded of just how young harry is. he’s barely an adult, just turned eighteen and he’s being forced to grow up so fast. and nick knows he’s being immature himself, but all he can think is _it’s just not fucking fair_ , as he grips harry closer.

when they pull away, harry’s eyes shining suspiciously, nick takes a quick second to compose himself. he can’t let harry know how much this affects him, not when he’s the one being counted on to act mature and all that. so he grins almost instantly, and says, “are you gonna come in or what, then?”

they end up settling on the couch, harry’s hands curled around a cup of tea (not yorkshire) while nick watches him, watches the way his body almost folds in on himself. and almost as if harry can tell, his eyes flicker over and he says, “i’m not a complete disaster, y’know. i won’t break if you stop watching me.”

but he does slide over to nick, curls into him as nick wraps a protective arm around his shoulders and asks, “so, what happened? with you and louis, that is.”

because he knew harry’s appearance here, his drunken call and his destroyed expression were all because of louis. he’d seen the way the two orbited around each other, like magnets inexplicably pushing and pulling and turning into a supernova that burnt up everything in its path (he tried not to think about what happened to a supernova).

harry just shrugs, and says in a very small voice, “it just collapsed. he went on some twitter rampage about eleanor, and that fucking awful canadian interview about us happened, and, well. i said that i couldn’t deal with it anymore, couldn’t deal with eleanor and the lying and the whole act that we’ve constructed. i told him he had to choose.”

harry stops speaking, turns his face into nick’s chest, and nick can feel the slight trembling emanating from harry’s body as he presumably fights back tears. it hits him once again, how fucking breakable harry is, how easily he can be torn apart by just several words. it’s something he doesn’t like to let on about, but to people that know him, it’s obvious.

so nick drops his head to press a kiss into harry’s mess of curls, gently rubbing circles into his shoulder. they stay that way for a while, pressed into each other on the sofa, until nick realises that harry’s fallen asleep, breathing slow and deep against him. he knows he won’t get a decent night’s sleep on the couch, but seeing harry look so innocent, so young, he doesn’t have the heart to make him move.

nick drifts off eventually, to fitful dreams of green eyes brimming with tears, and when he wakes up, harry is gone. all that remains of his visit is a note saying a simple _thank you .x_.

+ 

the next time they get to see each other properly, is at tinie tempah’s launch party for his new range of shoes or shirts whatever the fuck, and harry comes round to pick nick up in his new car, already slightly tired but buzzing from his day out.

“went ‘round primrose hill with lou and tom, looking for an apartment,” he explains, rearranging his hair under his beanie, “it’s going to be kinda lonely, living by myself. it already is pretty lonely, actually. even with someone else in the flat. he’s not ever there, really. not since – well, not anymore.”

harry’s eyes are downcast for a moment, the atmosphere becoming thick with the words that aren’t said, the name _louis_ never mentioned. and it’s harry’s eyes that do it, the way he blinks a bit too quickly and looks up, ahead at the road, that make nick blurt it out without thinking, “so come stay with me for a bit.”

he regrets it the second the words have left his mouth, wants to take back the last few seconds so that he won’t have to see or hear harry’s polite rejection. nick’s just thinking, _what the fuck is wrong with you, grimshaw, pull your fucking shit together_ , when he hears, “really?”

and he looks over and harry’s looking at him so hopefully, the hint of a smile already forming on his face, and nick can’t help but reply, “yeah, of course.”

harry’s resulting smile is so bright, so contagious, that nick can’t help grinning back.

+

it’s not like harry ever really gets any time off, though, and he’s recording for almost a month before he gets a blessed few weeks away. while the band’s recording, harry’s out all day, then back to spend a few quick hours with nick where they’ll have dinner and catch up before he leaves to do the radio show. it’s odd, nick thinks, that despite them hardly seeing each other, he feels connected to harry, the little notes they occasionally leave each other on the fridge feeling quite as though they’re a married couple.

but when nick’s birthday rolls around, harry’s overexcited and almost bouncing on the couch as nick flicks on the blow dryer, brushing his hair up into the well-maintained quiff. they’d spent the day at the park, with harry in one of those ridiculous morphsuits in order to both keep his anonymity and generally terrorise everyone.

“grimmy. grimmy. grimmers,” he calls, drawing his voice out so he sounds particularly whiny, and then says, “we’re late to aimee’s.”

“fashionably late, superstar,” nick says over the drone of the hair dryer, “it’s my birthday, after all. i can be as late as i like.”

and just for harry’s comment, he takes as much time as he can with his hair, grinning at harry’s reproachful eyes.

when they arrive at aimee’s, it’s to cheek kisses and “where the fuck have you two been?” as harry rolls his eyes and replies, “this tosser needed to comb his quiff about six hundred times.”

“excuse me young harold, it’s not a bad thing that i take pride in my personal appearance. it’s not like you’d understand, what with that curly mop of yours,” and just for that, harry punches him on the shoulder – gently, but enough to make nick retaliate until they’ve dissolved into giggles, with aimee sighing, exasperated.

“so, can we do drinks or am i actually dealing with children here?” she asks, pulling out a bottle of moet & chandon, complete with three champagne flutes.

“to grimmy,” harry toasts, and the three of them clink their glasses.

 _to grimmy_.

+

so it’s several hours later and they’re at club groucho, and nick might be just a little bit smashed but it’s his birthday, so it’s fine. he’s got an excuse, at least. and he’s laughing at something alexa’s on about, but in the corner of his eye he can see harry and caroline at the bar with shot glasses in front of them, heads thrown back in laughter. he smiles to himself, because caroline had been good for harry, in her easy, casual way. they’d never been all that serious, he knew, but she made harry happy, before the fans and the pressure and the distance all ended up being too much for them.

he wanders over to them, excusing himself, and lets caroline pull him into a sloppy, drunken hug, kissing her on the cheek before ruffling harry’s hair in a hello.

“happy fucking _birthday_ ,” she grins, “you’re catching up, y’know.”

“i’m not _that_ old,” he shudders, “next thing you’ll say that i’m getting wrinkles.”

caroline and harry exchange a look, and then she’s reaching up to poke his forehead as the pair dissolve into giggles.

“okay, okay, very fucking funny, you two,” nick rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. he loves these two idiots, honestly, and he feels very warm and he also thinks harry looks a little bit like a cherub but maybe that’s just the vodka talking.

when he snaps out of it, he realises that harry is actually talking, saying, “and then i hear this woman go, ‘oh, is he in one direction?’ and grimmy was all –“

“not this fucking story, harry!” nick exclaims, covering harry’s mouth with a hand to stop him talking as caroline watches, laughing, “for god’s sake, styles, you can’t go around telling this to everyone we know.”

“i already know this story, love,” caroline grins, “when we first started seeing each other he thought it was the most hilarious thing ever. until i found out he got mistaken for frankie cocozza.”

nick’s given up struggling with harry by then, instead having an easy arm slung around his shoulders, so he feels his indignant squawk before he hears it, really, and can’t help but cackle just a little bit.

“you absolute tosser,” harry says, but he’s smiling. “come on, let’s dance.”

so nick lets harry take his hand and lead them onto the dancefloor, amongst the throng of people and presses his torso up against harry’s, feeling the heat of harry’s body as he moves his hands to thread through harry’s hair.

and this is what he loves best, letting everything melt away, letting harry forget he’s got eyes trained on him at all times, cameras poised to snap his every move and catalogue each breath he takes, every deliberate flicker of his eyes or step on the sidewalk. he’s got hawk eyes watching, just a marionette with someone always pulling the strings, a vessel for a ventriloquist when he’s speaking words that aren’t his.

nick looks at harry, suddenly concerned, but harry just pulls him closer, and they lose themselves in the beat of the music, the rush of the alcohol and adrenaline.

+

“have you heard,” nick says, “i’m hosting the—“

“radio one breakfast show?” harry asks, rolling his eyes, “nope. haven’t heard a thing about it.”

“wanker,” nick replies fondly, “but no, the teen awards.”

“oh yeah, we’re performing – i think we’re meant to be coming into radio one in a few days to announce it with you,” harry rises from the couch, asks, “tea?”

“sure, thanks love,” nick smiles, “not looking forward to seeing tomlinson, if i’m being honest.”

“be nice,” harry says, giving him those stupid puppy eyes, and nick basically has no choice other than to nod, defeated.

“i was going to be!” he protests, but a single look from harry silences him, and he just says, “shut up and make my tea, superstar.”

when harry comes back with their cups of tea, curls himself around nick and nuzzles into his neck slightly, nick can feel something inside him flutter, something he hasn’t felt for a long time. it’s the gentle workings of the beginning of something, and it feels important. nick doesn’t know what it is, but he knows he isn’t ready. he can’t do this with harry, not after his heart’s been broken and nick’s trying to help put the pieces back together. because he needs harry to be able to trust him, and if he’s honest, nick doesn’t really think he could deal with the rejection.

so he pushes the feeling down, the thoughts to the back of his mind, and instead, tangles his hand in harry’s hair, stroking gently and laughing when he almost purrs.

“you’re actually incredibly bonkers, y’know that?” he smiles down at harry.

harry just pushes his head up towards nick’s hand, and nick thinks that this, whatever it is, is okay. because as long as harry’s happy, that’s all he really cares about.

+

on the day they’ve planned to go to reading, nick’s woken by harry climbing into his bed, thin streams of light filtering in through the cracks in his curtains.

“sorry,” harry murmurs, voice heavy with sleep as he slides under the covers, nick’s arm automatically reaching out to pull him close.

“what’s wrong, love?” nick mumbles back, trying very hard to ignore the fact that harry is wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else and his body is pressed up against nick and their legs have somehow become tangled in the space of seconds.

“was thinking about leeds. ‘bout lou.”

and if nick could find a way to punch louis fucking tomlinson in the face without any consequences, then he would do it with absolutely no hesitation. because harry just looks so fucking broken, so small, evidently on the verge of tears, and nothing should be able to make him feel this way.

“oh, love,” nick breathes, shifting so he can pull harry against his chest, his face pressed against nick’s collarbones.

harry’s voice is muffled when he says, “just realised that. well, it’s really over. don’t think it had sunk in properly yet.”

nick presses a kiss to harry’s curls as he replies, “i’m sorry, sweetheart. i really am.”

“mmm,” harry says, “me too.”

even as harry’s breathing evens out, quietens, nick can’t fall back asleep. it’s partly to do with the fact that harry’s half on top of him, their limbs in a tangled heap, but more to do with the feeling he has coiled deep in his stomach, something like butterflies (and he feels like a bloody cliché, suddenly fifteen years old again). and he wants to do something reckless, to whisper words in the dark, but they get stuck in his throat so he has no choice other than to swallow down his love.

+

reading passes in a blur of taking too many cheesy photos and watching sidestage as florence and azealia play, harry by nick’s side the entire time, and nick can’t help remembering. remembering the first time nick invited harry out with his close-knit circle, introduced him to alexa and aimee and gells and henry and caroline and pixie and the rest. harry’d been visibly nervous, and he’d even said, “they won’t like me, grimmy. i’m just a kid in a boy band.” but nick had insisted, all but dragging him to the club, and everyone had been perfectly polite and lovely at first, but every time harry opened his mouth and made a joke or an endearing comment, nick could see them all falling a little bit in love with him.

he figures that’s how it goes, really. that it’s impossible to know harry styles without adoring him, because, well. it’s harry styles. he’s an enigma, someone nick’s been trying to figure out far too long. he doesn’t know if he ever will understand harry, and he thinks he’s okay with that.

but when they went back to nick’s apartment, harry claiming he was too tired to head all the way home, nick had been almost glowing with pride, so fucking happy for harry. and he’d said, “i told you. i told you they’d love you,” and harry had replied, “d’you really think so?” with such a hopeful expression on his face, that nick thought he’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. but at the same time, harry just looked so open and innocent, and nick wanted to tell him, to warn him against it. because, he thought, you can’t just _look_ at people like that, with such pure, blind trust. harry wears his heart on his sleeve and nick knew that it would get broken, one day.

he just didn’t realise that he would be the one to put the pieces back together.

+

nick doesn’t really realise how fucked he is until he finds himself agreeing to go to the fucking funky buddha club, because of harry’s pleading “come on, grimmy, it’s li’s birthday and the only other one of us going is niall and i promised i’d go.”

they’d already planned to go to club g.a.y. to see rita perform, because _she’d_ made nick promise to drop in and watch, but that wasn’t till later, and it was hard not to indulge harry when he was making ridiculous puppy eyes.

“it won’t be that bad, swear,” harry promises, tugging on nick’s arm as they walk in.

but nick soon realises that either harry had no idea, or he was blatantly lying, because honestly, these people are awful. liam really needs to get some better friends, he thinks as some bloke named andy gets all up in his face about nothing in particular, acting drunk and generally tacky. harry’s disappeared, probably gone to talk to liam after they’d both wished him a happy birthday, and nick feels quite out of place – so he immediately makes his way to the bar. the bartender, a tall blonde guy, eyes him up and down and looks away disinterestedly, and nick just rolls his eyes as he orders a grey goose concoction. he figures it’ll be easier to get through the next hour or so if he’s on his way to getting absolutely plastered.

and as nick watches the party happen around him, grimacing at the fact that there’s a fucking _camera crew_ – and honestly, what kind of a place makes videos of people’s birthday parties? – he realises that he’s here. at the shittiest club in london, possibly. and it’s for harry. because harry asked him to.

he thinks that his inability to say no to harry styles is becoming a real problem, and turns back to the bar, figuring that more drinks won’t solve said problem, exactly, but make it a lot easier to ignore.

when harry wanders over to him, trailed by a group of liam’s friends who introduce themselves as maz and hattie and joe and there are more names and faces to remember, but nick honestly doesn’t care. he’s checking his watch surreptitiously, trying to hint to harry that he would really like to get the fuck out of there, but harry starts chatting away, constantly forcing nick into the conversation as if he knows how much nick doesn’t want to be there but is determined to keep him involved anyway.

the group eventually melts away, and harry sighs as he slides onto a barstool next to nick, ordering a line of shots and saying, “sorry ‘bout them. know it’s not your usual crowd of boho hipsters or whatever the fuck.”

“hey, don’t get mouthy, popstar. you’ve snuck your way into our circle,” nick teases, “i think if you stopped coming out with us people would cry. it’s the dimples or summat, makes you quite irresistible.”

harry just rolls his eyes as a line of tequila shots are placed in front of them, and says, “come on, drink up. then we can be off to see rita.”

nick raises an eyebrow, “turning into a right alcoholic, you are,” but he takes the shot anyway, following it with another.

+ 

as harry and nick leave the club, nick thanks god that there’s no paparazzi waiting outside, because he’ll never fucking live it down if he gets spotted at this place, although it’s likely that his friends will find out anyway and tease him mercilessly about it.

they slide into a cab and give the address to the cabbie, who seems to recognise harry, a flicker of interest lighting up his eyes before he begins driving. the radio’s on in the background, and nick wrinkles his nose at the fact that lmfao is playing, because really, he hates funky buddha for a reason, and its tendency to play crap like this is one of them. but the song ends, smoothly transitioning into what he can distinctly recognise as “one thing”, and he immediately turns to harry.

“oh no,” harry says, “can we change the song, please?”

but apparently, the cabbie is also quite a big one direction fan, or just hasn’t heard harry over the sound of grimmy singing, “i’ve been playing it cool...”

somewhere around “get out of my head,” harry loses his patience and playfully punches nick’s shoulder, and nick immediately grabs his hand, saying “come on, superstar! no punches, you know you love it anyway.”

harry just hits him with his other hand instead.

+ 

so rita is bloody fantastic, the crowd absolutely loving her, and nick honestly feels incredibly proud, and more than a little relieved, because he wouldn’t want to have to do the whole awkward lying to a friend bit if she wasn’t all that great.

harry’s been jumping around the whole performance, singing into nick’s ear, “i get that drunk sex feeling baby when i’m with you,” and he just looks so fucking good all tipsy and dishevelled, shirt hanging dangerously low on his chest and necklaces stark against his collarbones, cheeks red and eyes wide. nick wants to ruin him, to hurt him, to press him up against a wall and _take_ , but instead, he dances along, tucks harry under his arm and sings back to him.

when rita comes offstage, she greets nick with a kiss to the cheek and “where have you been hiding this one, nicholas!” as she hugs harry hello.

“hey, it’s not my fault you’re too big of a popstar for me now,” nick teases, “ _oh, i’ve got my new album out, don’t know if you’ve heard, i’m rita ora, oooh.”_

rita just rolls her eyes, asking, “does he do this shit with you too, harry?”

“one of our songs came on in the taxi and he yelled it at me the entire time,” harry replies, utterly bemused, “he doesn’t even know half the words.”

“that is not true!” nick is indignant, because that was his favourite one direction song, thank you very much, and he tells them just that.

they sink onto the couch, chatting away, and even more drinks are brought out for them, which probably isn’t the best idea as harry’s already quite giggly, and is swaying on his feet, but they take it anyway. and after these drinks, a food fight somehow breaks out (nick thinks it started with harry shoving candy corn down rita’s top, and tries incredibly hard not to feel jealous, but he’s always been an emotional drunk), and there’s food everywhere and champagne has spilled on the ground. jeremy’s joined in, pelting icecubes and canapes at harry and nick, and harry’s using nick as a bit of a human shield, which means he’s copping most of it, but harry’s hands on him make it hard to care.

it doesn’t take very long for jeremy to get fed up and kick them out, although nick thinks the part where he got so irritated was probably brought on by the fact that they spilt a bottle of very expensive champagne on what is probably a very expensive carpet. but by then, he’s too far gone to care, laughing as they’re ushered out, his arm wrapped tightly around harry as they say goodbye to rita and pile into the cab.

“where’s your car service, superstar?” nick mumbles when the taxi begins moving, pressed up against harry in the back of the car.

“only use it when we go to stuff, like premieres and whatever, all together,” harry replies, nuzzling into nick’s side, and nick is so goddamn incredibly fucked.

“mmm,” nick says, “what’d you think of rita?”

“she’s lovely,” harry smiles up at him, and he’s pressed so close and his eyes are so big and his fucking _lips_ —

nick is way too drunk for this shit, honestly.

it doesn’t take them much longer to get back to nick’s house in primrose hill, and they tumble out of the car and into nick’s house, giggling as they hold each other up. in his drunken state, harry follows nick to his room, collapsing on top of the sheets and pulling nick down next to him.

“m’tired,” harry turns his head and shuffles in closer to nick, letting nick wrap his arm around him and pull him in close.

“go to sleep then, you muppet.”

“will you be here when i wake up?” harry asks, almost shy.

and nick’s taken aback, he really is, because harry’s never asked him anything like that before, anything so intimate. it’s as if harry’s asking permission for something. maybe he’s asking for nick to let him into his heart, but what he doesn’t know is that he’s already there. he’s been there for a long time.

“of course i will, darling.”

“good,” harry replies, “s’just... at the end, before we stopped being us, louis wouldn’t be there. he left before i woke up in the mornings.”

“oh, love,” nick murmurs, and he doesn’t know what to fucking say because harry’s breaking nick’s heart with every single word he says and these fucking stories about _harryandlouis, louisandharry_. and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to think of harry’s name put with anyone else. he tries not to imagine _harryandnick, nickandharry._

“you would never do that t’me, though,” harry’s voice is so quiet, and nick realises he’s probably just thinking out loud at this point, “probably why i think i might be a little bit in love with you.”

nick’s heart stutters, jolts, heat rushing through his body. everything is alight with harry, harry’s words filling the air between them with a sort of thickness. and he doesn’t know what to reply, what to even say to that, because harry doesn’t. harry can’t, not after he’s been left like this, left alone, and he’s only looking for somewhere to transfer his affections.

he’s saved from having to make a response when he realises that harry’s drifted asleep under his arm, breathing evenly with closed eyes.

+ 

nick wakes up at around five-thirty the next morning to the dulcet tones of harry retching loudly into his toilet bowl, something which immediately brings attention to the steady pounding of his head and subsequently making his stomach turn.

he stands carefully, padding his way to the bathroom and peeking inside to find harry slumped over, head practically buried in the toilet as he heaves.

“poor harry," nick hums, pulling a glass from the counter and filling it with water as he moves to rub circles in harry’s back, smoothing harry’s hair away from his face.

harry stops retching, flushing the toilet and shuffling over so that he’s leaning against the wall tiredly as he takes the glass of water from nick’s grasp and sips gingerly.

“sorry,” he grimaces, “didn’t want to, well. y’know.”

“be sick all over my house?” nick smiles, shaking his head, “we’ve all been there, love. i do imagine you were quite fucked last night, though.”

“don’t really remember, to be honest. last thing that’s clear is the food fight, and there’s a gap, and i remember when we got inside here, and not much after that. sorry if i like, dunno. did or said anything?” harry phrases the last of it as a question, almost a test.

nick laughs nervously, and he already knows what he’s going to say, “s’alright. don’t remember all that much either.”

“oh?” harry asks, expression tightening.

“mmm,” nick hurriedly changes the subject, “now, can we sleep for a few more years or are you not done vomiting in every available crevice?”

“nah, let’s sleep,” harry says, smiling.

when they go back, climbing onto the bed and under the sheets this time, harry very decidedly stays on one side of the bed, not cuddling up to nick like he usually does. and nick pretends it doesn’t hurt, tries not to wonder what that means.

he tries, but there’s part of him that just can’t help it. and that part’s winning more and more often these days.

+ 

harry starts accompanying him to the studio, more often than not. he’d already turned up there once or twice a week, ready with a charming smile to appease grumbling security and make nick roll his eyes with how easily he won everyone over, but now it’s rare if he’s not there, feels oddly empty in the studio without him.

he’s kind of just a little bit incredibly irritating, though, because he’s decided that his favourite pastime is throwing things and running around and hitting nick and moving his microphone away from his face while he’s trying to speak, and nick broadcasts to quite a lot of people, thank you very much, so he’d really rather that didn’t happen.

producer clair and ian and finchy think harry’s hilarious, _of course_ , and finchy remarks once when harry’s out of the room, “keep the heart eyes down, grimshaw,” which, well. nick had thought he was being subtle, but with harry, it’s always hard to tell. it’s hard to keep his love tucked away.

he’s finished up one night and planning to head out for karaoke with everyone, and is begging harry to come with him despite the fact that he’s flying out to los angeles for the vmas early tomorrow morning.

“c’mon, harry, we’ve got to go out and flaunt our matching nikes,” he pleads, grinning cheekily. they’d unintentionally worn the same shoes, walking out of their rooms and almost falling over with laughter when they saw each other. nick had wanted to change, but harry’d insisted that it was hilarious, and despite nick’s protest of “i feel like a teenage girl or summat,” he’d gone along with it. mostly because of how big harry’s smile became. (all because of harry’s smile.)

and harry agrees, although nick thinks it’s mostly because he feels guilty about making nick burst into laughter live on air when he’d walked out of the studio and hit his head, and they head off to one of the smaller pubs in the area, the place with the karaoke machine and bartender that doesn’t mind if they get inappropriately sloshed and end up yelling into the microphone.

so nick may get more than a little tipsy, unintentionally overload his instagram with stupid photos of their shoes (because hey, it is pretty cute) and the karaoke lyrics and he does choose _crazy in love_ by beyonce, singing most of it into harry’s face and resolutely ignore the fact that everyone else is cheering and exchanging knowing glances or just laughing at him, but hey, it’s all okay, because harry’s been grinning like mad the whole night, so naturally, nick hasn’t stopped smiling either.

when they arrive home, harry singing george michael at him in the special voice he has for karaoke – the one he puts on after everyone teases him about being a proper popstar and showing them all up – nick can’t take his eyes off harry, and realises that he’s never cared about anyone so much, never felt so strongly about someone other than this barely-legal, floppy haired idiot.

nick makes a beeline straight for his room, intent on sleeping off the cocktails, but harry follows him, looking almost sheepish.

“hello superstar, is your own bed not good enough for you?” nick says, “ _ooh, i’m harry styles, i have a professional crew to plump my pillows_.”

harry rolls his eyes and replies, “tosser,” as he slides his shirt off and climbs under the covers, but he’s smiling fondly, so that’s sort of negated it.

“why are you here then?”

“dunno,” harry says, “s’pose i’m gonna miss you. will you watch the vmas?”

and nick’s heart melts a little bit, because he can hear the nerves in harry’s voice (and when did he become so attuned to these emotions?), and he replies, “of course i will. couldn’t miss my famous popstar best friend winning three moon men, could i?”

“oh god, i’m fucking bricking it,” harry says, and tucks himself into nick, pressing so closely that their faces must only be centimetres apart and holy fuck, nick feels like he could be one of those screaming fans that harry’s a little bit terrified of sometimes. “make me forget about it,” harry says, and, well.

that’s the perfect opportunity for nick to lean in and brush his lips against harry’s gently, eyes fluttering closed. and it takes him a second to realise what he’s done and he almost jolts away as his eyes widen, but harry’s looking back at him with a small smile and then _he’s_ moving and this time, when their lips connect, it becomes electric, charged with the tension that’d been brewing between them for weeks, maybe even months, and their mouths move together as harry’s tongue finds its way in between nick’s lips and nick gently nips down on harry’s bottom lip. their legs tangle together and nick rolls on top of harry, straddling his waist and pressing down slightly as he kisses him again.

finally, finally, _finally_ , is all nick can think, and harry’s everywhere, hands roaming and his mouth doing almost indecent things that nick will probably never be able to forget – although he’s not sure he ever wants to forget this night.

but then he has a thought, something that jars with everything that’s just happened, and he pulls away, both of them breathing heavily.

“harry. harry, we can’t do this,” nick shakes his head, gulping. “it’s not – we’re not. you know why.”

“because of louis,” harry mutters, defeated, “but nick. grimmers, grimmy. want _you_ , want to – “

and harry pulls nick back down to him, fingers moving to fumble with his jeans before nick pulls away again, capturing his hands. but harry’s devastated expression after he does it makes nick’s heart actually physically _hurt_ , and jesus fucking christ this boy should be illegal.

“never said i didn’t want to, love,” nick untangles himself from harry and flops down next to him, “it’s just not the best idea right now. you’re about to go and win all these awards and perform and, well. i think we can save it for later?”

“i’m over louis, i _am_ ,” and harry’s so cute when he’s stubborn that nick can’t help but laugh and kiss him once, quickly, before settling properly.

“what if you see him and change your mind?” nick asks, “what if in the heat of the moment after you’ve won your awards and –“

“oh my god, you’re _jealous_ ,” harry says gleefully, “this makes it so much better.”

“not jealous,” nick mumbles, even though he thinks he probably (definitely) is. “just worried about you, s’all.”

harry just hums in response, says, “’night, nick.”

“goodnight, superstar.”

+ 

when nick wakes that morning, it’s to a note on his bedside table that says _sorry i had to catch my plane, didn’t want to wake you up. i’ll text you soon, love harry .x (p.s. i borrowed your ring, needed something to remind me of you. hope thats okay)_ complete with a large smiley face.

it all feels oddly domesticated and as though they’re dating already, and nick can’t help but smile, can’t help but get his hopes up.

+

 

and when he sees harry and louis hug after they’ve won their third award, his hopes basically plummet and crash and sink and whatever other shitty metaphors he can use to describe it. he can feel his stomach drop out as he watches how closely they hold one another, the way their bodies just seem to _fit_ together. nick’s always believed in soulmates, and he thinks he’s seeing it in action now, almost as if harry and louis were made for each other.

he switches the telly off, realising that it’s about three am and he’s stayed up to watch harry in fucking america when harry’s all wrapped up in louis and probably couldn’t give less of a fuck about him, and _christ_ , he’s an idiot.

he texts harry, feeling more than a little spiteful, saying _congratulations on the awards. and whatever happened with tomlinson. really happy for you xx_. he regrets it as soon as he’s sent it, and even more when harry sends him back _thanks???_ , obviously confused. so he shuts off his phone and resists the urge to throw it across the room, because iphones are expensive and it’s very irritating to have to transfer everything over if you break one. he knows this because of that time harry dropped his in the toilet, which he’s promised to never repeat, and –

he realises that almost everything he thinks of leads back to harry. he’s all about harry now, fucking harry popstar styles. the one person with the ability to break his heart, and ironically enough, it’s because nick was trying to put his back together.

+ 

so nick maybe ignores all of harry’s calls and texts for the next week, because he’s totally not above acting like a complete teenager. instead, he goes out and parties and cries all over gells until he’s pretty sure she wants to hit him.

“just fucking sort it out with him, grimmy,” she sighs one night, lounging on his sofa with a bottle of beer curled in her hands, “you don’t even know what happened. you’re jumping to conclusions, mate.”

“but it was like. gells. like, they’re made for each other?” nick says, aware that he sounds like a complete twat but not particularly caring.

“it doesn’t always work that way, love. you know that. and harry’s been hanging around you for months, always in the studio and out with us and making stupid eyes at you. we were all wondering when you were going to get it together.”

well, there’s that, at least, nick thinks.

and nick tries to ignore the pap photos that show up of harry with some girl named savannah, wonders who she is and what harry’s doing with her and on and fucking on until he’s sick of his own thoughts, constantly bogged down in insecurity.

so he texts harry: _come home._

the reply comes not even five minutes later: _i’ll be on the first flight i can find_.

+ 

when harry arrives home, it’s cold and raining and nick’s curled up on the couch with a mug of tea, idly scrolling through his twitter feed when the door to his house clicks open.

and harry’s standing there, hair with droplets all through it and cheeks slightly flushed as his eyes search for nick, who rises off the couch and moves to greet harry in the doorway, automatically going in to embrace him before he realises.

“hi,” harry says.

“hey.”

“so, um.”

nick realises that they’re both just standing there facing each other, shuffling awkwardly and trying their hardest to look anywhere but at one another, and he can’t help himself looking up at harry and snorting a laugh. harry looks back at him, bewildered, but then he’s laughing too, and it’s all so fucking ridiculous, honestly.

“i thought you hated me,” harry said, “i thought you changed your mind and you didn’t want me anymore and –“

nick surges forward, kisses harry before he loses the nerve, and harry responds by wrapping his arms around nick, locking his hands behind his neck and pulling him closer.

when they pull apart, nick’s shaking his head, saying, “i saw you and louis at the vmas, and i freaked out, and then there was that girl you were papped with, and i’m an idiot.”

“oh god,” harry laughs, “i think savannah ended up absolutely hating me. i didn’t shut up about you and louis and that whole saga basically the entire day i spent with her. she’s just a friend of lou’s, that’s it. you know how the tabloids make out i sleep with anything that moves.”

nick kisses him again, replies, “what louis thing?” because he’s a masochist and incredibly jealous and what’s the point in hiding it, really.

“that i was terrified because louis was. well, louis was my first love, and he was safety, and he was so much for such a long time? and then you come along, nicholas grimshaw. and you, well.”

“i think i’m a little bit in love with you,” nick blurts, and kisses harry once more.

harry’s face just fucking lights up at that, and he smiles that wide-open, trusting smile that nick still wants to tell him that he can’t just go around smiling like that, because he’ll get hurt. but he’s nick’s now, and nick has absolutely no intention of breaking his heart.

“god, nick,” harry replies, and then they’re up against the wall, harry’s body pressing nick’s back into the hardness of it as he presses his mouth against nick’s. and nick thinks you could hardly call this a kiss, it’s too much teeth and tongue, but he’s gasping as harry’s hands spread across his body, stroke him through his tracksuit pants until he’s hard, and oh _god_ he doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on so quickly, and it’s harry. it’s all because of harry, really.

they stumble to the sofa, discarding random pieces of clothing along the way, and drop onto it, nick on top of harry and kissing his neck, suckling marks in because he wants to claim harry, because harry is _his,_ finally, and he wants to fucking shout it from the rooftops and all of that other cheesy bollocks.

harry is writhing underneath him, rutting up against nick, and nick mutters, “you’re so shameless, styles, we’ve hardly gotten started.”

“shut the fuck up and touch me,” harry replies, dragging a teasing finger up from nick’s knee to the very topmost of the inside of his thigh, and nick expects him to peel off his underwear but the little minx has other plans, repeating the motion several times until nick’s breathing has become short and ragged, and he’s grinding down against harry, effectively moving his hands.

harry’s hard too, pressing himself up against nick, and nick wonders if they could come just like this, because harry’s probably still young enough and nick is so fucking close already. so he reaches into harry’s boxers, gripping around his leaking cock and stroking several times, collecting a bead of precome from the tip.

it all passes so quickly and nick’s completely lost his sense of time, because it could be minutes or seconds or hours before harry’s coming completely undone under him, shaking as he spills into nick’s hand, surprisingly quiet as he lets out short little noises and pants of air.

harry’s dazed afterwards, wide blinking eyes and red cheeks, but he certainly hasn’t forgotten his manners as he shifts on the couch, sliding down to pull off nick’s pants and take his cock into his mouth.

and thank god for that, nick thinks.

+

they wake entangled in nick’s bed, naked after their shower together the previous night. it’s nick that wakes first, and he really needs to piss, but he’s all wrapped up in harry and he looks so peaceful while he’s sleeping that nick can hardly bear to wake him up.

it doesn’t take long for him to stir, though, as the light streaming through the window gradually grows brighter, and he wakes with nick’s name on his lips, murmuring it as a question on the edge of sleep and making nick’s heart thrum with the fact that he’s the one harry thinks about like this, even while he’s not awake.

“good morning, darling,” nick kisses harry’s nose, and then his lips.

“mmm,” harry stretches, “you stayed.”

and suddenly nick remembers the conversation they’d had, the one that harry had said he’d forgotten, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness.

“you asked me to, all that time ago.”

“thought you didn’t remember that?” harry asks, suddenly frowning.

“wait. d’you remember it?” nick counters, looking at harry with confusion.

“well. yeah. maybe. but why didn’t you tell me that you did?”

“i thought you’d forgotten,” nick shakes his head, “you told me you were falling in love with me. i thought you might not want to know that you’d said it, thought you might regret it or summat.”

“god, and i was so fucking upset thinking you didn’t feel the same,” harry laughs, “we were kind of massive twats, weren’t we?”

“a little bit,” nick acquiesces, and god fucking damn it he is so in love. in love with harry’s curls falling into his eyes, in love with the way harry looks at him, in love with the way harry’s completely stolen the covers in the middle of the night. in love with all of it.

“i do love you too, y’know,” and it’s almost as if harry’s reading his thoughts, and nick just can’t stop smiling.

“i know,” he replies softly.

they lay there for several minutes, breathing in sync as harry’s head rests against nick’s chest, nick idly combing his fingers through harry’s curls.

“m’gonna make breakfast,” harry decides after a while, sliding out of bed, “what d’you want?”

nick grins, “not fussed, really. anything a member of the wanted makes is good enough for me. after all, i’ve heard they’re the best.”

harry picks a pillow off nick’s bed and tosses it at him.

+ 

that’s how it begins, but it’s not how it ends either.

 

(it doesn’t end.)


End file.
